


Still Beside Us

by sugarboat



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Comeplay, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 00:26:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: Jon has a private visit with Elias.





	Still Beside Us

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for season 3. :)
> 
> Written for 100 words of conjugal visits. This fic is exactly what it says on the tin!

Jon’s already driven at least an hour out of his way, to this location that is supposedly a jail, so really, it’s too late for him to be having second thoughts. Tall, willowy trees border the outskirts of the property. They bracket the long sloping drive that leads to the entrance and mask the mesh fences that stretch up to the sky. Between the slats of verdant leaves, the pointed edges of barbed wire catch and throw off reflections of the midday sun.

All in all, it seems too good for what Elias has done. There should be signs, or billboards. A flyer should have gone out, an email to every living person – that Elias Bouchard has admitted to guilt, has done horrible, terrible things, and now he’s-

Now he’s what? Is he any less dangerous, trapped in one place but still able to See? And what had he even done before – outside of the murder – that he couldn’t accomplish with a few well-placed words and insinuations? Martin has tried to be optimistic, Jon knows, but the victory rings echoingly hollow. 

He’s forced to sign in at the front desk. Empty his pockets, take his shoes off, leave any pens or sharp objects behind (and that part should be amusing, imagining Elias stabbing him to death with a pen, but then Jon thinks of the wet, cracking sound of a pipe mashing a skull to pulpy bits and it’s not quite so laughable) and somehow this includes the tape recorder he hadn’t even consciously chosen to bring with him. 

“Jonathan Sims,” the bored looking attendant reads, squinting through thick glasses at her computer screen. There are bars separating the two of them, a little rectangle open at the bottom where papers and personal items can be pushed through. Jon rests his left hand on the counter. “You called ahead, right? Private visitation with one Elias Bouchard?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Jon says, with the tone he nearly always gets when he’s trying and failing to have patience. 

The way the attendant sniffs and pulls her gaze from the monitor in front of her – redirects it to him - makes Jon think he probably hasn’t managed to mask any of his irritation. She looks him up and down, critically, and Jon is, well, caught off guard, to say the least. His posture straightens minusculely. 

“Right. Not what I would have expected,” she says. He’s not entirely sure it’s directed towards him. “All right then, follow the nice guard over there, Mr. Sims, he’ll take you to the privacy suite.”

Suite. Elias is serving his prison sentence out in a building that has suites. The worst part is how utterly unsurprised Jon is. A soft click and a door to the right of the reception desk unlocks, the guard stepping out and stopping short. He gives Jon a quick once-over before nodding and guiding him down a series of bland, off-white hallways. There’s no pressing need for small talk on either side. The guard stops at a door that looks like most of the other doors they’ve passed and opens it for him, gesturing Jon inwards, and then Jon is standing in a room that could belong in any office space as the door is closed behind him.

If office spaces typically featured a bed shoved against one far wall. But there is a table located in the mostly-center of the room with four uncomfortable looking chairs surrounding it. And a couch, and a lounge chair, and next to the door – just to the left of where Jon is standing – is a small side table. With the usual small side table accruements, like a beige lamp, and a small assortment of lubricants, and a large bowl filled to its brim with condoms of various sizes, presumably shapes, and flavors. 

A cascade of details Jon hadn’t even realized were pieces of anything click firmly into place, but the only coherent thought in his head is _oh no_. In a truly stunning move of competence, Jon darts forward and grabs the most offending item – the bowl, dear lord, the bowl – off the table. There could be some rational, normal, human explanation for the- for the lube, but this, this has to go. A quick glance around the room doesn’t show any obvious location to stash it. 

His eyes dart from the table to the couch to the chair, and finally the bed, which he can maybe shove it underneath? And pull the coverlet down to the floor, and leave it there, and it will be someone else’s future problem. It’s best terrible plan he has. Jon is halfway to the bed when the door opens again. A few of the condoms are tossed from the bowl by momentum and concentrated bad karma as Jon whips around to find, of course, Elias, watching him expectantly with one eyebrow raised. The door is pulled shut with a firm snap behind him.

Elias’ gaze sinks to the bowl in Jon’s hands. Jon wants to drop it or throw it across the room in terror. His cheeks are burning, and they only blaze hotter as Elias’ eyes drag slowly upward to meet his own. Jon squirms uncomfortably.

“Jon,” Elias says. “What a pleasant surprise.” 

“Elias,” Jon answers stiffly. His fingers tighten against the bowl. 

“A very pleasant surprise,” Elias continues, and Jon feels his shoulders tense at the small quirk of his lips, how unwavering Elias’ attention is as he stalks across the room. “Feeling optimistic about how our little reunion is going to go?” 

“I-” It takes a moment for the full implication to sink in through the panic fogged adrenaline of his mind. “Shut up.”

“Clever,” Elias comments. He stops just in front of Jon and lifts a hand. Drags his fingertips around the lip of the bowl. “Are you distracted, Jon? You’re usually a bit more, hm, expressive with your feelings.” 

“Well, excuse me if I find it disconcerting to walk into a prison visitation room that’s been generously littered with- with prophylactics,” Jon snaps.

“You _did_ ask for a private visitation,” Elias points out. He looks obscenely pleased.

“Oh, yes, and I suppose everyone is meant to assume that means-”

“-Sex, Jon; that is the usual assumption,” Elias says. He places his hands over top of Jon’s on the bowl. Jon twitches back and Elias’ fingers tighten over his wrists. One of his thumbs trails along Jon’s own.

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” Jon says. “A business shouldn’t run its services based on assumptions.” 

“Yes, you wouldn’t,” Elias agrees, unfalteringly cordial in the face of Jon’s scowl. “Would you like me to do something with this?” 

“Do, uh- do something,” Jon repeats blankly. 

His pulse has picked up, absurdly. Elias leans in. His hands are warm around Jon’s, and his eyes are the same indeterminant pale they’ve always been, crinkled at the corners with his amusement. It’s uncanny to see him outside of the Archives. Jon might have expected him to be diminished, somehow, but even here he’s anything but. There’s something heavy in his gaze, his fixation, that raises the fine hairs along the back of Jon’s neck. 

“With the bowl,” Elias clarifies. It snaps Jon out of his study. 

“Right! With the, uh, bowl. Yes, of course,” Jon says. 

Elias’ hands slide down Jon’s until he’s pulling the bowl free from his grasp, and Jon heats up again at the sight. Elias sets it on the center table, while Jon just stands where he is, watching. His arms drooping to his sides. Elias crooks an eyebrow when he finds Jon’s gaze. 

“Should I have kept them closer?” Elias asks.

Jon scoffs. “Please. What use could we possibly have for them?” Elias’ grin gains teeth. “Besides the obvious, which is _obviously_ not going to happen.” 

“So you say,” Elias says, but he’s still coming closer, and Jon is still watching him, feeling pinned in place somehow. 

“Don’t put it like that,” Jon says. 

“Like what, Jon?” Elias asks. He’s firmly within Jon’s personal space. 

“Like- like it’s just-” Empty platitudes, like it’s just Jon _saying_ something, and not meaning it, it’s the same dismissive kind of attitude that Jon has always hated. That he hates now, especially as Elias’ hand finds his side, rests in the sloping inward dip above his hips. 

“Just what?” Elias presses, his other hand cupping the side of Jon’s neck, drifting upwards to thread his fingers in Jon’s hair, to wind the strands around them and tug, gently. 

Jon shudders. He lifts his hands, intending entirely to shove him away, to regain the distance between them. They land on Elias’ chest. Jon can feel his heartbeat thud, slow and measured, beneath his right palm. He leaves them there, as Elias’ fingers tighten and twist in his hair, an unforgiving grip that has Jon following his lead.

They’re far too close, and Elias is encouraging him closer, still. Painfully close, where Jon can watch Elias’ eyes as they flick from his, down to his lips, and back. 

“Jon,” Elias says. Close enough to feel his breath. Close enough that Jon could imagine the brush of his lips moving over his own. 

“Elias,” Jon answers. His hands slip higher up Elias’ chest; one slides around the back of his neck. 

“What do you want, Jon?” Elias asks. He tugs at Jon’s hair again, a deep-rooted sensation that burns pleasantly, any pain to the action soothed away by the pads of Elias’ fingers, the scrape of his nails over his scalp. 

It’s a good question. Jon wants Elias to rot in an actual jail cell. He wants back the lives Elias has ruined and mangled. He wants to sleep through a night again, he wants to be rid of the deep, aching hunger that Elias and the Beholding have carved into his chest. He wants a normal life, a human life, he wants to feel like he isn’t missing some vital, integral piece of himself that only slots into place when he’s falling endlessly into a wide, staring eye. 

An echo of which he feels every time Elias’ gaze sweeps over him, and Jon wants to fall into that, too, wants to tear Elias apart, wants to drag every secret he’s ever kept out through his mouth. He wants to crack his skull wide open and scrape every piece of knowledge he’s ever gathered free from its insides, and Jon feels Elias shiver beneath his hands, feels his hand tighten on his side, and he wants to know what Elias is seeing, what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling – if feelings are something Elias is capable of. 

Elias chuckles, a low, sinuous sound that twines like ribbons around the base of Jon’s spine. “That’s quite a lot, don’t you think?” 

“Shut up,” Jon repeats himself, and as usual, tosses himself headlong into assured disaster. 

Jon crashes their mouths together clumsily, and Elias shapes and molds them, adjusts Jon until the angle is just right. His teeth drag over Jon’s lip, shearing it to raw sensation, lapping and sucking at it intermittently until Jon can’t tell if his actions make anything more or less bearable. Elias pulls away and cranes Jon’s neck to the side, and Jon gasps in a sharp breath as Elias’ teeth close on his skin just below his jawline. At the sound Elias sinks his teeth in deeper and then eases, and then they’re just grazing across his abused skin, over and over, while Jon tears at Elias’ shirt and only has a few spare thoughts to be exasperated about how Elias doesn’t even have to wear a prison uniform here. 

 

They end up on the bed the first time, with Jon on his knees and his hands gripping the headboard while Elias works his fingers inside him. Pushing too hard, too fast, forcing Jon to shudder and clench around him. Even here, of course, Elias is unerring, his left hand stroking at the small of Jon’s back or pushing at his hips, forcing the bow of his back steeper and steeper, and when he rubs circles inside Jon sparks shoot up the length of his spine, shiver outwards into all of his limbs. 

“Elias,” Jon gasps, pushing back into his hands. “Elias, please-”

Elias shushes him and leans over to nose at his neck. To find a spot he’s already made sore and bite into it again. Jon moans shakily at the dull ache remade sharp and bright, feels his cock jerk and leak between his legs and his hands clench and twist on the headboard. Elias leaves a chaste kiss on his shoulderblade. 

“I’ll take care of you, Jon,” Elias says. Jon hates how the statement melts in the basin of his stomach. “I always do.”

Lie. It’s a lie, and Jon would tell him so, how Elias has done nothing but the exact opposite of it, how he’s shredded Jon to pieces and left him to pull them back together alone- Jon would tell him, except Elias chooses that exact moment to wind his left hand around to Jon’s cock, and pinned between his hands Jon shakes apart anew, Elias coaxing and encouraging as he always does. 

Jon is still shivering in the aftermath of his orgasm when Elias thrusts inside him. One hard shove that has Jon jerking in overstimulation, his insides aching sweetly as Elias bottoms out and grinds his hips against him. 

“Too much?” Elias asks, gratifyingly breathless. Jon groans in semi-coherence, a sound that trails into a strangled whine when Elias licks at that same mark and digs his teeth in _again_ , as he drags his cock out and snaps it back inside him. “You can come again, Jon; I don’t mind.” 

“I don’t need your-” The air is knocked out of Jon’s lungs. Every thrust of Elias’ cock inside him has his nerves firing erratically, has his vision whiting at the edges. “-your permission.” 

“Of course not,” Elias agrees. He clamps a hand at the back of Jon’s neck. “Let go.” 

Jon releases the headboard and Elias shoves him down into the sheets, pins him there as he shifts. The change of angle has more of his weight crashing against Jon on every downward thrust, hard and fast and too much, and so good that Jon finds his legs straining to spread, shoving his hips back, his body a messy collision of sensations all winding together at his groin. 

Each stab of pleasure is tinged at its edges with an electric sort of ache. The deep tissue soreness of an overworked muscle, the higher trill of being stretched so thoroughly, Elias forcing Jon’s body to take him, to accommodate for him. Elias’ cock brushes over his prostate, nothing more than a teasing implication, little spitting sparks of sensory input that Jon’s body isn’t currently equipped to interpret. If it hurts or if it’s pleasurable, and even that is addictive in its own right so Jon just settles for wanting more of it, his cock hard and throbbing with his pulse. 

“Do you want to come again?” Elias asks. 

It’s difficult to think straight, when Elias seems intent on pounding the thoughts right out of his head. Jon nods, though it feels like Elias’ hand is wreathed in needles when it drags along his inner thigh, stinging as he wraps his fingers around Jon’s cock, giving him a tight, sore ring to thrust into, disjointed and unsatisfying as Jon’s attempts to follow through are. 

Elias is making soft sounds, low in his throat in time to his movements. Jon feels strung piano-wire tight again, taut and ready –practically begging – to be snapped. Snatches of words come out of Jon’s mouth, are forced out of him, and he knows he’s twitching, writhing on Elias’ cock, and the thought shouldn’t be as thrilling as it is. Elias groans above him and shoves himself in deep, his hand a vice around the base of Jon’s cock. 

Elias’ hips stutter against him. Jon imagines this part might feel quite nice - the liquid spill of Elias’ come inside him, Elias jerking in tiny motions like he’s human, like it’s instinctive to want to bury himself inside Jon. It would feel quite nice, if Elias hadn’t left Jon teetering on the brink of orgasm, and he hears Elias huff out a shaky laugh when Jon twists and shifts his own hips restlessly.

Elias withdraws slowly, leaves Jon stinging with his absence. Something in Jon’s chest clenches unexpectedly while Elias’ hands soothe over his skin, Elias shushing him when he hasn’t even said anything. His face flares with heat when he feels Elias spread him, knows he’s watching his own come leak in a thin dribble out of Jon, arousal and humiliation both hot and thick in his gut, and Jon doesn’t know which one causes his entire body to spasm – causes heat to flare through every inch of him - when Elias uses two fingers to gather up the come he’s spilled and work it back inside him. 

There’s a swat to the side of his hip that jolts through the fogged cloud of his thoughts enough to bring a scowl to Jon’s face, and Elias’ hands are encouraging him to turn over, a feat Jon attempts to manage with the minimum necessary requirement of awkward flailing. Elias insinuates himself between Jon’s legs. He lets one of them hook around his waist – Jon doesn’t think about that, how he wants to keep Elias there, keep him close – and bends the other one, a hard grip on the back of Jon’s thigh forcing his leg up towards his chest. 

Elias’ hand is slick and shiny with lube, and he it wraps around Jon’s cock, giving a slow, twisting tug from the base to its tip. Jon twists his hands in the sheets as arousal slams like a heavy fist into his gut. He’s close already, or still, so close, he can feel the muscles of his lower abdomen clenching and shivering, his hips canting forward, all but bucking into Elias’ hand, his breath coming shallower and shallower- 

And that would obviously be the exact moment Elias takes his hand away. It’s less a conscious decision and more autonomic impulse that has Jon lifting his own hand to his cock, but Elias snatches it by the wrist and pins it down to sheets, chuckling at the thready whine Jon gives in response.

“What’s wrong, Jon?” Elias asks, and he sounds believable enough in his false concern that it’s a jarring reminder of his inhumanity, of the mask he slips on and off at will. “You don’t need my permission to come, remember?” 

“Elias, please-”

“Please what?” Elias asks. 

He releases Jon’s hand and leans back, widening the spread of Jon’s legs, but when his hand dips down again it’s only to scratch idly across the length of Jon’s inner thigh. Jon’s hands are free now – his left has always been – and it would be a simple thing to bring himself off beneath Elias’ watchful gaze. He thinks Elias would let him, would let him make that choice and wouldn’t even be disappointed by the result. 

But it wouldn’t be what he wants. Elias wants him here, choosing to be here, twisting and shivering under his hands. He wants Jon straddling the thin, sharp line Elias has forced him upon, and so Jon keeps his hands clenching and tearing at the sheets, and he knows that he’s ceding something, admitting something, though he’s not quite sure what. But he feels the weight of Elias watching him, and the weight of something else, too, and the hungry, ravenous chasm inside himself opening wide and devouring and wanting, forever, wanting this moment to last forever, where Jon is surrendering some part of himself and Elias is taking it gladly.

The moment passes, the unslaked hunger remains, and Elias slicks his hand up and down Jon’s cock again, and again pulls off just as Jon is threatening to tip over. Jon doesn’t bother to measure how long it lasts. Couldn’t, probably, as his world is reduced over splintering moments to raw sensation, to the overwhelming tide of pleasure every time Elias touches him, the vast vacuum of frustration that rushes in every time he pulls away, the tight cords of every inch of muscle in Jon’s body knotted and clamoring for release. 

“I think,” Elias says, as he drags his index finger along the underside of Jon’s cock. It twitches pitifully, painfully hot and hard, and Jon swears when Elias’ blunt nail scratches the head of it. “I think you can come now, Jon.” 

The words alone are nearly enough to have him coming, a rolling wave of anticipation and tension hooking together between his hips. Elias makes a thoughtful sound. He murmurs something that’s utterly lost as he takes Jon in hand and jerks him roughly, and this time he doesn’t stop, he brings Jon right to the edge and shoves him over-

And then he takes his hand away. Elias releases Jon’s leg so he has both hands free to pin Jon’s to the mattress. Forces him to ride out a slow, dribbling release that offers little in the way of actual satisfaction, his cock jerking untouched and spilling come in lazy splatters onto his own abdomen. It leaves an ache like a bruise in the basin of his pelvis, and Jon feels boneless and strangely wired in its wake. He glares at Elias acidly when he settles onto the mattress next to Jon.

“Now, Jon, there’s really no need for such a scowl,” Elias comments. He’s propped himself on his right elbow, and his left hand finds Jon’s skin again, spreads through the puddle of come Jon’s left on himself. 

“Oh, there is plenty need,” Jon snaps. His skin shivers pleasantly, and feels disgusting, as Elias smears come over him.

“I don’t see what you have to complain about; you got what you wanted, didn’t you?” He pulls his hand away, fingers strung with threads of white.

“Don’t play stupid with me, Elias, you know exactly what you did.” Even if Jon doesn’t. Even if he’s unsure just how Elias managed to ruin, of all things, an orgasm, and Elias chuckles before presenting his left hand to Jon, close to Jon’s mouth. 

“Well, if you’re unsatisfied, there’s always next time,” Elias says. He taps at Jon’s lips with one finger and Jon grimaces. Though he is thankful Elias isn’t using the hand that was practically palm deep inside him to harass him now. 

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” Jon says. 

His tongue flicks out automatically to clean away the smudge of come Elias has left on his lip, and Elias’ finger follows it as it withdraws into his mouth, sliding smoothly inward until Jon’s lips are wrapped around its base. Elias pets along Jon’s tongue as his finger retreats, leaves Jon’s mouth tingling and wrapped in the bitter, briny taste of his own come. The action repeats for the next two fingers, and Elias’ eyes are fixated on Jon when he offers him his palm, last, and Jon licks it clean. 

“So you say,” Elias finally remembers to speak. Jon glares at him and says nothing.

 

Next time finds them both on their sides in the very same bed, Elias pressed flush to Jon’s backside, thrusting slow and achingly deep inside him. He has one armed wrapped around Jon’s chest and Jon clings to it, sighing as Elias buries himself to the hilt within him and grinds. It feels like how the Archives feel, sometimes. It feels like the horrific embrace offered to him in his dreams. It feels like an eye closing to rest, and Jon wonders if Elias feels it, too, has ever felt it – or wanted to – and Jon wonders if he wants to consume this feeling or be consumed by it, if he wants to devour Elias or be devoured by him, and Elias whispers _yes_ against his neck, again and again, and wraps both their hands around Jon’s cock and brings him fully over the edge. This time he doesn’t stop, keeps Jon tight around his cock, keeps their hands moving until every last drop of pleasure has been wrung from him.

 

These sheets are disgusting. They were probably disgusting when Jon came in the room, and they certainly are now, but Jon can’t bring himself to move. Not yet. 

His limbs are tangled with Elias’. He can feel the beat of Elias’ heart beneath his cheek. He can feel the fragility of the moment around them, how it’s already crumbling at its outermost corners. He can feel that thing inside him, quieted but stirring, soon to awaken with fangs and teeth to prod him further into inhumanity.

He isn’t sure if what they’ve done has hastened that journey at all; it would be too much to hope it has stalled it in any way, at this point. 

“Elias,” Jon says, knowing as he speaks it only unravels everything further. Knowing, and unable – or unwilling, isn’t it all the same – to stop. “Do you have nightmares?” 

Elias is quiet. His hand stills from where it’s been drawing lazy patterns against Jon’s spine. “I assume everyone has nightmares, Jon.” 

“You know what I mean,” Jon huffs. He drags his nails along Elias’ ribs in reproach, but he’s fairly certain he doesn’t achieve the intended outcome. 

“Yes, I do,” Elias concedes. 

“Well?”

“I do,” Elias says, “Though I hesitate to refer to them as _nightmares_. And of course, they don’t take the same form as your own – you have your dreams, Archivist, and I have mine.” 

Curiosity needles inside him. Jon props himself up to see Elias better, to study the strangely unguarded cast of his face, not even bothered by how much open amusement Elias takes from his interest. “Will you tell me about them?” 

“Perhaps,” Elias says. He lifts a hand to run through Jon’s hair, and it pauses on the back of his neck. “Yes, I think I will. But not now.” 

“Of course not,” Jon complains. Elias smirks, a soundless puff of a laugh leaving him.

“There’s always next time, Jon.” And he tugs Jon forward into another kiss, coaxing his eyes back to shutting.


End file.
